All Other Jades
by Strapless
Summary: A take on Sarge’s past, and how he acquired a skill vital to his future.


**Disclaimer: **It's probably quite clear that I have no ownership claims to the characters, world, etc. I'm simply playing in the world Ms. Pierce created.

**Author's Notes:** The result of a challenge issued by Merrybeans via LJ.

"**All Other Jades"**

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_He is pure air and fire; _

_and the dull elements of earth and water never appear in him,_

_but only in patient stillness while his rider mounts him;_

_he is indeed a horse, and all other jades you may call beasts._

-- Shakespeare, _King Henry V_.

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He was fourteen when he enlisted in the army. It wasn't voluntary. Far from it, in fact. More like one day he was working in the emperor's fields and the next he was pushed into a packed-dirt compound, told to line up like so, stand up like so, look this way like so…

Not that it really mattered what had changed. This was just one more day notched on the stick of Things That Happened to Slaves. He barely remembered what it was like not to be a slave, faint memories like rare cool breezes of a place those stationed far above him in life called 'Ekallatum.' He supposed he called it 'home,' but could he really call a place home he hadn't seen since he was four?

He was sixteen when he first saw it. It was like the fearsome wildfires of the savannah condensed into a mortal form with all the volatility of a sandstorm. The other boys jumped back against their orders, muttering in high tones of fear that this thing must be some horrid god, or a demon that allowed men upon its back, teeth much larger than a goat's and hooves sharper than a giraffe's. He did not stray from his position, and he doubt he could have if he wanted to, rooted to the spot by sheer fascination for this glorious creature. His fellow conscripts were convinced the beast must be as dangerous as a lion, but a lion it was not, for all it had the same kingly look about it. He saw what they did not: a gentleness in big eyes dark as his own skin, vulnerability in those slender legs and that long-necked gracefulness—and a bit between its mouth with reins in the hands of the uniformed man who dictated their lives. He immediately felt a kinship with the creature.

There was no word for it in his native tongue, but these pale northern lords called it _horse_.

Seventeen, and he was still the only one of his fellows who didn't cringe or flinch when one of those foreign beasts came too close for comfort. Not that they could help it, since the horse's intimate presence was most often accompanied by any number of reprimands from the sergeant upon its back. But the horse could no more help its position than they could. For this reason he found himself assigned to virtually permanent stable duty.

He was guarding the entrance to the stables and awaiting his superiors' orders when a richly dressed officer exited, leading a pair of horses. That was the first oddity of the day. The second oddity came when the man handed him the reins to one of the horses and told him, as if was instructed every day to do so, "Mount up."

"But, sir—" he started, eyes wide in surprise, then rushed to bow when he saw the speaker.

A hand on his shoulder stopped him before he could move any further, and he straightened up to stare at the grinning face of General Gazanoi Iliniat.

The General still held out the reins with a dark-skinned hand. "Go on, lad. This horse isn't getting his legs stretched by standing here."

He looked around to make sure this wasn't some joke being played upon him, and once satisfied that it wasn't, propped his staff against the stable wall and reached for the reins. He was glad his hand only shook a little.

"My lord?"

"An officer may confer certain favors upon a soldier that shows considerable merit," the General said, quite as though he were discussing the latest news from the capital. "It is not, however, looked as well upon for an officer to give such favors to an enslaved soldier. As such, I find it necessary to educate a particular soldier so that he may better carry out his duties as set forth by his superior officers."

He was gaping at the General. The man had never stopped smiling. Iliniat winked.

"You've cleaned up after them long enough. Time to learn to ride. His name is Firebreath. Put the reins over his head."

He decided then and there the man was mad, but pulled the reins over the gelding's head anyway. No time to waste the opportunity when it was there for the taking.

Firebreath was the color of well-polished copper. He looked down at the horse's legs. Its two front pasterns were white. They matched the scars that wound around his own wrists like hideous bracelets.

"Make sure the girth is tight—won't do to have you fall off sideways before you get anywhere. Good. Now, hold the reins in your hand and get some mane in there, too. No, your other hand. Left foot in the stirrup and spring up. Grab the back of the saddle if you need be, and once you're settled find the other stirrup."

The General swung onto his own mount so easily that he wasn't sure if this was one of those instances where a task was easier to describe than to do. He folded one long leg, poked his foot into the stirrup, and in a few miraculous seconds—and a couple awkward hops—he was viewing the world from a much different perspective. A long neck stretched out before him, chestnut mane cascading down one side and two ears swiveling back towards him. Firebreath shifted his weight, snorting out a breath. He felt like a king on a throne, as though he could touch the sky. Never mind the fact that his feet almost hung below the horse's belly.

Iliniat broke the moment. "Don't just sit like you're in a chair—you're riding, boy! Back straight, chin up, push those heels down so you won't lose the stirrups, and bring those legs underneath you. You'll need them there for balance. If I took that horse out from under you, you should still be able to stand steady."

It took him a moment, but once he'd rearranged himself suitably the General gave an approving nod.

"Now, which is your sword hand?"

"Um…my lord general sir?"

"Yes?"

"We're not allowed edged weapons, sir. The slaves, that is."

The General frowned for a moment. "I see. Well, whatever hand you would use should you ever have a sword, take the opposite and hold your reins with that. Like so." He demonstrated. "Do you know why?"

"So I can use my sword with that hand," he answered, imitating the General's grasp on the reins with his left hand.

"Very good. Shorten them a little, so you have a feel of his mouth," he added. "First lesson: how to stop. Sink your weight into the saddle, as though you were sitting deeper into a very well stuffed chair, and pull back on the reins. No need to jerk, mind you, just a steady application of pressure until he stops. Got it?"

He nodded.

"Second lesson: how to move. Give him a squeeze with your legs. Tap him with your heels if need be. Firebreath's no slabsided brick, so you shouldn't need whip nor spurs, nor to thump him 'til his ribs crack like yon lordlings make a habit of. He's better trained than that. With him, you ask, not demand. We'll get into what to do when they respond with 'no' later; a good horse will always say 'yes.' Well, go on!"

With a prayer, he squeezed. Wonder of all wonderous things the horse stepped forward. He'd been on a barge once, as it transported slaves down the river. Firebreath moved out with the same smooth, slightly rocking feel, but this time there was pure joy in the motion. With that simple movement he realized he was sitting on the approximate equivalent of a barrel of blazebalm. One trigger and it could explode—and he was the one calling that shot. For the first time in the longest time he felt as though he had control. This was what it felt like! The kingly feeling was back, the mastery and mind-rushing glee of being able to direct another living being. Yet, in the back of his mind he knew he only did so by the grace of the creature's good nature. One good buck and he'd be back in the dirt. His awareness of that fact only made him feel more exalted. No wonder the officers took to lording their superiority over their troops from the back of a horse!

"Very good. Don't forget those heels! Now, third lesson…"

At twenty three, Sergeant Musenda Ogunsanwo was the first slave to become an officer in His Imperial Majesty's Army in living memory. The soldiers simply called him 'Sarge.' There was never any need for clarification—everyone knew which of the sergeants was being referred to. He addressed his troops from the back of a horse, with one hand free for the sword at his hip.

That was, until he decided it was time to terminate his service in the emperor's army.

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End file.
